Richard Jewell

The true story of how a security guard who saved countless lives from a bomb at a music festival celebrating Atlanta’s hosting the 1996 Olympic Games, suddenly went from being a hero to being endlessly harassed by the FBI and the media alike as the one and only suspect of the crime, simply because he happened to fit the profile of a "lone bomber".

WHAT WE THOUGHT:

Returning once again to true stories of ordinary human
bravery, Clint Eastwood’s latest film is also one that uses the events of
nearly twenty-five years ago to comment on our current reality. Even if,
ultimately, it doesn’t hit with quite the same power as his very best movies
(Gran Torino, Unforgiven), Richard Jewell still finds the director on both very
focused and very fine form.

Eastwood is a noted libertarian, so it’s hardly surprising
to see him drawn to a story that vilifies the government while glorifying the
quiet heroism of an ordinary working man, but the main target of his ire here
is quite clearly a mass media that is so all-consumed with sensationalist
headlines and selling as much copy as possible that it will blithely trample
all overdue process, civil rights and empirical truth along the way. It’s a
film that is not afraid of sentimentality and subtlety is not the name of the
game here, but there is a fiery passion at the heart of Richard Jewell that
makes for an intriguing and effective counterpart to Eastwood’s unfussy
professionalism as a filmmaker.

Admittedly, there is a slight whiff of opportunism about a
film that, at a time when the president of the United States of America calls
the media the enemy of the people, is a savage indictment of that same media.
On the other hand, though, his clear distrust of the government doesn’t come
through anywhere near as powerfully in this film as it does in the constant,
real-world media coverage of what is surely one of the most distrustful US
administrations in living memory.

And yet, facts are facts. And it’s probably unfair to
ascribe a motive to Eastwood that may be, at very best, totally coincidental.
What’s interesting, though, is that for a “true story” it actually does seem
like Eastwood and screenwriter Billy Ray (working off a book by Kent Alexander
and Kevin Salwin, which was itself an expansion on an article by Marie Brenner)
have stayed very, very close to the true events – except for one crucial
exception: Kathy Scruggs, as portrayed by Olivia Wilde in the film, was, by all
estimates, nowhere near as parasitic or as lascivious as she is portrayed here.

Scruggs is basically used as a representative of the worst
kind of journalist but, regardless of whether the film’s distorted depiction of
her is simply a case of dramatic license or something more purely critical,
it’s an odd and rather unfair departure from the facts in a film that is
otherwise so accurate. She is granted a greater level of humanity later on in
the film, to be fair, but the film has enough examples of the media acting
monstrously that there was really very little need to transform a woman who struggled
with major depression and drug dependency until her untimely death of an
overdose in 2001 into a lazy “vulture-journalist” caricature.

This is more the pity because it’s the one truly sour note
(albeit one that’s only full revealed with a bit of research into the real
story) in an otherwise rock-solid piece of work. Eastwood is a director who,
when he’s on form, makes very good, expertly crafted films that only
occasionally wander into true greatness and, though that remains the case here,
there is something to be said for the sheer competence and confidence on
display in bringing such a remarkable and disturbing true story to life.

It’s a fairly long film, but it’s almost never less than
entirely compelling and, for all that one could scoff at its occasional forays
into cliché, Eastwood’s impeccable ability to create both tension and an
uncanny reproduction of the sadness and frustration of those unjustly
persecuted is an exceptional accomplishment that is far too easy to under-rate.
Though, of course, Eastwood hardly manages it alone and, along with the
sympathetic, humane script, he has a murders row of incredibly talented actors
to bring this true story to life.

Kathy Bates all but steals the show as Richard’s mother
Bobbi; Jon Hamm, Olivia Wilde, Nina Arianda and Ian Gomez are all excellent as
crucial supporting players in Richard Jewell’s story; and there isn’t a film on
the planet that isn’t improved by Sam Rockwell, who is dependably fantastic as
Richard’s lawyer and public mouthpiece. The star of the film, though, is
clearly Paul Walter Hauser as our eponymous hero. Richard Jewell is a character
that is clearly all too easy to turn into a one-note caricature, but Hauser
brings plenty of subtlety, compassion and depth to the role – imbuing Richard
with a realness that could so easily have been lost in a script that is clearly
unafraid at times to paint in broad strokes.

Like many of Clint Eastwood’s latter-day work, Richard
Jewell is struggling to make back even its modest budget, but it once again
proves that despite the occasional misstep (has he ever released a more reviled
film than the 15:17 to Paris?), the now ninety-year-old filmmaker still has
plenty to say and an undiminished ability with which to say it. A story this
important, told with this level of clear-eyed efficiency, deserves a far
greater audience than it has so far gotten. It may not be a masterpiece, but
it’s still very, very good, indeed. The true story of how a security guard who
saved countless lives from a bomb at a music festival celebrating Atlanta’s
hosting the 1996 Olympic Games, suddenly went from being a hero to being
endlessly harassed by the FBI and the media alike as the one and only suspect
of the crime, simply because he happened to fit the profile of a “lone
bomber”.